


Heros, Archers, and Crossbows

by Songofpsalms297



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And couldn't Leliana have tracked him down that way?, Does he whittle?, F/M, Like a little trail of sculptures?, Like are there scattered bits of woodworking he has left behind?, Relationships are strongly hinted at, What else would Blackwall make?, Would he have given these to children as he passed through villages?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 16:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10468803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songofpsalms297/pseuds/Songofpsalms297
Summary: Blackwall showcases his woodworking skills.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It is something of an enigma to me that when the Inquisitor first meets Blackwall, the first conversation has a flirt option. I know The Iron Bull has one too. There is just something in the way that the option is right out there like a road sign. Reminds me of Isabella, and Zevran.  
> The part that strikes me is while Blackwall has no problem having a physical relationship with the Inquisitor, and the other non-romanced characters will engage in physical relationships with other characters, Blackwall/Josephine have one of those "high romance" stories. Like the knights and damsels of old. It is a very sweet romance. He knows he is not good enough for her, and she knows she cannot. BUT. They long for one another.

            After decades on the run, he’d felt cagey suddenly surrounded by the sheer cacophony of Haven. It had been easy to strike up a conversation with the master smith, respect earned through proved skills. Blackwall chuckled into his forward stroke, careful to not breathe in the dust that scented the air around him. His eyes twinkled at the memory of all the subtle tests Harritt had put Blackwall’s woodworking claims to. Seeker Pentaghast should have recruited the smith as a Chantry interrogator. Subtle as the man was with his questioning, Blackwall figured Harritt would have gotten the location of Hawke out of the Inquisition’s resident storyteller before they’d left the cesspool that is Kirkwall. Setting down his sanding block, and picking up the nugskin rag he used to clean off the wood dust from whatever he was carving, he began his careful wiping the model off. He paid special attention to the joints, making certain no dust remained. He knew Dagna would enchant the thing so it would repel any errant grains of debris, but any woodworker of good caliber knew their craft demanded the very best work one could turn out. Otherwise, why bother?

            After inspecting all the grooves, teeth, and notches to make for absolute certainty that they were free of all debris, Blackwall picked up his snoufleur skin rag, and the tub of beeswax to rub into the iron bark artefacts he was crafting. Opening the container, he chuckled aloud as the smell tickled his nose. Recalling Sera’s insistence that the Inquisition should take her up on her offer to connect them with a man who knew how to weaponized bees brought a level of comfort to him. His own sister had died ages ago, and there was a larger age difference between Sera and himself, but Maker damn him if Sera didn’t remind him of her so strongly that sometimes his heart ached with the loss of one sibling, and rejoice with the gaining of another all at the same time.  The voice at his elbow nearly caused him to drop the gear he’d been working on into the wood dust at his feet.

           “So that’s what iron bark looks like as a mechanical component, eh? Doesn’t look too different from Bianca’s brass gears. You might be onto something there, Hero.” Varric’s smirk and the twinkle in his eyes informed Blackwall that the dwarf had caught his surprise and would be using it against him at some point in the future. Probably filing the tell away in the dwarf’s ever increasing arsenal of tells about his companions which he no doubt exploited to win at cards, and bets. Speaking of, Blackwall turned to the storyteller after collecting the other gears he’d crafted as replacements for the brass fittings of Varric’s famed, if only in the dwarf’s mind, favorite weapon.

          “Provided Dagna can enchant these to repel moisture, these fittings will not only make your crossbow far lighter, because her stock is made from iron bark, the wood’s natural affinity will make a more responsive weapon for you over all. I don’t understand the why’s and wherefore’s. I just know it works.” He handed the pieces he’d finished to the dwarf waiting by his side.

          “I’ll pass on fade-related lectures from Chuckles, thanks. You do beautiful work, Hero.” Varric watched the shadows chase themselves across Blackwall’s face, curiosity piqued. With a storyteller’s instincts, the author knew now was not the time to ask about it, but he would later. “Was Ilen right? Is iron bark stronger than steel?”

          Shuttering his memories for later solitary examination, Blackwall cleared his throat, “it is. It is some of the hardest stuff known to man. I’d heard at one point in my travels from a Dalish recruit some story informing us iron bark’s properties were the result of growing in heavily magical environments. It was likely nonsense as that recruit liked to tell tales of the wisp he’d fought that was larger than a pride demon.” They laughed companionably for a while. Clearing his throat Varric gathered all the pieces Blackwall had made which, Varric hoped would replace all of Bianca’s brass fittings. Over the many years Varric had had his crossbow, he’d had to slowly replace fittings, gears, etc., which had broken through use, or damage. One horrifying event, in an effort to save one of his party members from being dashed against sharp rocks in the hell-hole that is Emprise du Lion, his crossbow had been knocked out of his hand and shattered against the red lyrium outcropping. He’d had to rebuild her from scratch. Andraste’s wrinkled ass he’d grieved the loss of the crossbow he’d had, and in the process decided to rebuild her with different materials. All the little thoughts he’d had over the years of practical use, and Varric had come up with a list of things he’d modify. He was grateful for the opportunity to try them out now. The stock, flight groove, and limbs were safely with Dagna and Harritt in the Undercroft. Now, to bring the rest of the pieces, Blackwall had fashioned out of the spare iron bark Evie had found for the Dalish near Sundermount to join the ones entrusted with his favorite smiths.

          “Wicked grace at the Herald’s Rest later?” Varric asked heading out of the barn.

          “I’m not drinking the swill Bull passes around. I’ve already pulled a Cullen once with Solas because of it. I’m not about to give Skyhold another free view.”

          Varric laughed aloud, “You got it, Hero. Though we both know of a certain ambassador would appreciate the chance to view the show.” Varric was entertained by the way Blackwall’s beard bristled, and the color rose from the top of his beard to his forehead. As if someone were filling him with maroon dye. Chuckling at his friend’s obvious discomfort, “Sunset. Or you forfeit, and Ruffles finds a note inviting her to a romantic dinner in the gardens.”

          “You're a real bastard, Varric. I'll be there.”


End file.
